The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [102]
Keeping the lights turned off, he backtracked through the canal towards the roadway.
Within two minutes, the dark silhouette of the bridge came into view. As he moved in cautiously, he spotted a dark form tangled on the rocks underneath the span.
‘What is that?’ Meat said. ‘Is that—?’
Seeing nothing moving, Jason flipped on the headlights. Now the form was easy to identify. ‘Yeah. It’s a body.’
Making a slow approach, Jason scanned the immediate area. No vehicles. No men.
‘All clear,’ Meat confirmed with a second set of eyes.
Jason parked the truck close to the bridge. He and Meat got out and slogged over to the dead man.
‘Is it one of them?’ Meat asked, focused on the headwrap and tunic.
‘No,’ Jason said. He pointed to the feet. ‘He’s wearing marine-issue combat boots. And that’s the same turban Al-Zahrani’s driver was wearing.’ He crouched next to the body, clasped the shoulder, and turned it over.
The head slumped back and the throat yawned open like a grisly smile where it had been deeply sliced from ear to ear.
‘Awh, Christ,’ Meat said, putting his hand to his mouth. ‘That’s foul.’
Immediately, they both recognized the face … and it was no Arab.
‘Staff Sergeant Richards,’ Jason said, shaking his head. ‘Figures.’
‘I never liked that guy,’ Meat said. ‘What a prick.’
Jason kicked the body into the water. ‘Damn, Crawford. What were you thinking?’ he seethed.
‘Hate to state the obvious, Google. But there must’ve been more of those guys under this bridge. ‘Cause they killed this fuck,’ he pointed at the dead staff sergeant, ‘and the truck he was driving isn’t here any more. I think that means Al-Zahrani is gone.’
‘Not exactly,’ Jason replied confidently.
58
LAS VEGAS
Brooke Thompson and Thomas Flaherty strolled up the cathedral’s centre aisle, their eyes pulled in every direction by the interior’s ambitious design.
Shafts of muted sunlight penetrated the gravity-defying geodesic dome and wove together above the voluminous prayer hall. The outer walls were clad in alternating blocks of polished and crenulated Jerusalem limestone. The central altar, dominating the rear wall, resembled a concert stage with its huge viewing screens, speaker clusters and spotlighting arrays.
Most impressive to Brooke was the magnificent bronze baldachin that formed a lofty canopy over the altar. It depicted the haloed Jesus with rockstar hair and flowing robe, His welcoming arms spread wide in blessing, His feet surfing a cloud. Throughout the space she noticed no other iconography: no Holy Mother; no apostles or saints; no dove nor crucifix. Simply the Saviour.
Thousands of seats arranged in tiered arcs had already been installed on the main floor, but the balcony was still an unfinished piece of curved concrete.
‘I guess tithing really does pay,’ Flaherty said.
‘I’d say,’ Brooke agreed.
‘Welcome,’ a cheery voice called to them from somewhere in the front of the hall.
Flaherty spotted the greeter first. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing near the centre stage where a small hive of workers was busily assembling a mammoth pipe organ. Off to the left, a gaunt man with a pure white pompadour waved and headed for the front steps to meet them.
The guy shot like a bullet up the main aisle, and opened his arms as wide as the bronze Saviour overhead. ‘Welcome, my friends!’ He planted himself at arm’s length and proffered a hand, first to Brooke. ‘Minister Edward Shaeffer, at your service.’
‘Hi, I’m … Anna,’ she said, accepting his soft, manicured hand.
‘May Christ’s love shine upon you, Anna,’ he said with Broadway flair, clasping his other hand over hers.
Anxious to get her hand back, she said, ‘And this is my fiance, Thomas.’
‘Oh … fiance. How exciting. Such a joyous time. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ Brooke said. She noticed that when the minister glimpsed her modest ring, his enthusiasm diminished notably.
Shaeffer relinquished